


Three Minutes and Forty-Two Seconds

by spacemutineer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Telegrams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemutineer/pseuds/spacemutineer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three minutes and forty-two seconds passed between the instant Mrs. Hudson shoved Lestrade’s telegram into Holmes’ hands and the moment the cab finally arrived.  Inside that time there were some three minutes of pacing outside their front door on Baker Street.  Exactly two minutes and forty seconds of compulsively checking his pocket watch.  At least one semi-coherent outburst of swearing as he watched a parade of full carriages pass straight by him.  The final seconds of his wait he spent waving his arm and holding his breath while seemingly the only empty cab in the city appeared around the corner and at long last came to a stop in front of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Minutes and Forty-Two Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://methylviolet10b.livejournal.com/profile)[**methylviolet10b**](http://methylviolet10b.livejournal.com/) for her wonderful beta help. You are the best!

Three minutes and forty-two seconds passed between the instant Mrs. Hudson shoved Lestrade’s telegram into Holmes’ hands and the moment the cab finally arrived. Inside that time there were some three minutes of pacing outside their front door on Baker Street. Exactly two minutes and forty seconds of compulsively checking his pocket watch. At least one semi-coherent outburst of swearing as he watched a parade of full carriages pass straight by him. The final seconds of his wait he spent waving his arm and holding his breath while seemingly the only empty cab in the city appeared around the corner and at long last came to a stop in front of him.

And then he was finally on his way, as fast as the horses could carry him, according to the driver. To Holmes, it felt as if they were barely moving at all. He gripped the telegram hard in his hands as he stared at it, and the thin paper crackled under the pressure of his fingers. The Inspector’s message was short and to the point. He could hear Lestrade’s voice, crisp and clear, reverberating through the printed ink.

DOCTOR WATSON BEATEN STOP  
CHARING CROSS STOP  
HURRY STOP

Left with little but time in the back of the cab, Holmes poured his eyes over the neatly typed words again and again, trying to glean some (any... anything would be better than this _nothing_ ) kind of information out of them.

BEATEN

Watson was beaten. An image surfaced in Holmes’ mind of the doctor on the ground, curled into himself on his side, shivering and bleeding... A shiver of his own flashed through his spine and he pushed the picture forcefully aside from his thoughts. It was useless now, helping no one. He needed to _think_.

Beaten. With fists and boots? Or with weapons, perhaps a club or a pipe? There was not enough data to tell. It pained him to have to be hopeful for boots. Doctor Watson was not a man to go down easily in a fight, especially versus a single opponent, which made a straightforward scuffle unlikely. An ambush then, in all probability. And if it was an ambush, there had to have been more than one person involved, with at least one luring Watson in and others there for the attack.

So, ambushed by a group near Charing Cross. The doctor made a point to donate his time at a clinic for the poor less than a half mile from there most every Sunday morning. With this being one of those Sunday mornings and given the time, Watson would have either been on his walk to the clinic or only recently arrived. If that was the case, a feigned illness or injury would have made the perfect cover. Perfect to easily get Watson exactly where they wished him. Somewhere quiet, somewhere secluded, somewhere they could...

The last word of the telegram stood out, sharp and distinct to Holmes in its black stark lettering. He stared at the word, examining the lines and curves that formed each character. The letters seemed hollow somehow, like dark, narrow passageways with the sounds of ticking second hands and foreshortened breaths echoing through them.

It was the only thing Lestrade had written that truly mattered now.

HURRY


End file.
